


you are a storm (please rain on me)

by gigglingaesthetic



Category: Summer of ‘84 (2018)
Genre: Farraday centric, M/M, first work in the fandom oh wow, teen boys kissing and having thoughts and feelings, we deserved more of them so that’s what i’m giving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 13:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15864507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigglingaesthetic/pseuds/gigglingaesthetic
Summary: Eats first kisses him in his room on a Friday night.





	you are a storm (please rain on me)

**Author's Note:**

> for marley.  
> this movie has no works, and this is a crime, especially for these two. i love them so this is basically just me pulling headcanons out of my ass

Eats first kisses him in his room on a Friday night.

They’re sixteen, and it’s 1985, a year after the terrible, horrible summer that culminated in the death and near death of their two closest friends. Farraday still feels the pit of guilt in his stomach, the harsh voice at the back of his mind that says, _If you hadn’t given up on the group, thrown aside everything you suspected on a stupid coincidence, maybe Woody would still be alive. Maybe Davey would never have gone through what he did that night. Maybe Mackey would have been locked away to rot that night, if you hadn’t been such a fucking idiot._

Davey doesn’t blame him. Eats doesn’t blame him. But he blames himself, with a heavy heart and a pounding brain. He always will.

But things are better now, for him. For all of them. They’re not good, exactly, not in Ipswich. He’s pretty sure nothing in Ipswich would ever be _good_ again, to any of them. Eats and him tore down the treehouse. They all threw out the walkie talkies. Davey tore down every conspiracy theory article pasted on the wall of his room. It’s how they cope, how they acknowledge things have changed.

A constant in his life is Eats. Eats has always been there, since they were four years old and the dark haired boy pushed him down the slide. Farraday got a skinned knee and a cut on his chin, and a loud, disobedient, fellow kindergartener as his best friend. 

Davey came along in second grade, and Woody in fourth, and Farraday loved them both, he loves Davey and he loved Woody, but Eats is the rock that Farraday will never admit he couldn’t live without. Eats would never let him live it down.

Eats’ home life isn’t great, in fact it’s absolute shit. His brother’s a grade A dick, and his parents never stop screaming. Sometimes they throw things, and he’s gotten caught in the crossfire before. Farraday has often opened his front door, or unlatched his bedroom window, to see Eats outside, with a cut across his cheek or a bruise under his eye, voice low and shaky, clothes and hair unwashed. He lets Eats in, every time, lets him shower, lets him sit on the bed, on the floor, in his desk chair. He lets Eats cry, throws an arm over his shoulders, pulls him into an awkward hug, lets him know he’s welcome. He’s always welcome. They don’t talk about those hugs.

It’s late June now, and another one of their impromptu sleepovers at Farraday’s  
house. After last summer, Davey’s parents took Davey away as soon as school ended, the three of them staying at his grandmother’s for the remainder of break. It’s just the two of them now, Farraday thinks as he refocuses on Eats, who’s rambling on about some cheerleader at school, his leather jacket draped over the back of Farraday’s desk chair, his Walkman on the nightstand as he sits on the floor with the spare sleeping bag, long legs sprawled out. His sweatpants, borrowed from the boy across from him, are too short, leaving about four inches of ankle and calf, and Farraday can see around three bruises and cuts on each leg. He knows this isn’t from home, Eats is just too clumsy and smart-mouthed for his own good. 

Farraday is sitting on the edge of the bed, socked feet skirting the carpeted floor. He knows he’s staring at the other boy with a little too much fondness in his eyes, behind his gigantic glasses that are as nerdy as the rest of them. But Eats doesn’t know, doesn’t need to know, doesn’t have to know.

If someone ever asked Farraday, _Why Eats?_ , he wouldn’t know where to start. Eats is crude, snarky, bitter, profane, and a hundred other words that mean he spits so much shit out of his mouth it might as well be his ass, whether it’s slightly derogatory comments, a heavy amount of ruthless flirting, or talking back to any authority figure he crossed paths with. 

But Eats is his, even if he isn’t is in the way Farraday wishes. (And oh, he wishes.) Eats is his best friend, his source of comfort, of normalcy. Eats is a lot, and sometimes he’s too much, but Farraday knows he couldn’t live without him. He couldn’t even imagine it. He looks at the boy across from him and thinks, _My life only started when I met you._ Eats is messy and loud and angry and sad and broken, but he’s the most beautiful thing Farraday has ever seen. He knows it’s true.

“Hey.” There’s a squeak of bedsprings and a sag in the mattress that snaps Farraday out of his unnecessarily lengthy internal monologue. Eats has sat down beside him on the bed, His shoulder brushes Farraday’s, his thigh now pressed against the ot her boy’s and Farraday wonders how he could ever have been zoned out because he is so fucking hyper-aware of everything this moment. “You good? You’re more spaced out than fuckin’ Neil Armstrong.”

Farraday snorts a laugh at that, eyes down at his hands. “I’m fine. Just sick of hearing you talk about the cheerleader’s boobs. There’s other topics of conversation, you know.”

“You’d rather I talk about the abs on the guys, then?”

Farraday’s head shoots up, and he turns his neck so fast it cracks. For one terrible, awful moment he thinks that _Eats knows, oh god, he knows._ But then he sees the smile on his best friend’s face and he realizes he’s joking. He breathes out, relief practically choking him, and returns the grin, shaking his head a little.

“You suck.”

“You swallow,” Eats retorts, slinging a casual arm over his shoulders, and it’s only then, as Farraday opens his mouth to respond, that he realizes how close they are. Sure, they’ve been this up close and personal before, they got locked in the janitor’s closet once in seventh grade, when they were young they used to hide under the bed from Farraday’s mom, snickering about whatever young children entertain themselves with, and there have been plenty of other instances between the two, before, and probably after, but not since Farraday realized exactly how he feels about the dirty-mouthed boy he calls his best friend. 

Any word he might have been planning to say dies in his throat, and he’s fully aware he’s acting like a fucking girl but he doesn’t care. How could he? Eats’ face is six inches from his, at the most, and he can see every detail of the boy’s face, from the amount of grease in the bangs across his forehead to the freckle on the left side of his jaw, to the little green flecks in his irises.

Eats stares at him, dark lashes framing solemn eyes that are storms, unpredictable and wild, anticipating, thunderous. Just like the rest of him, made of lightning and cold rain. He’s a mixture of deep sorrow and crackling, explosive energy, and at that moment Farraday wants nothing more to be struck. The air between them feels electric, and he has time for the question of why Eats hasn’t pulled away yet to flit across his mind before Eats closes the gap and kisses him.

Farraday’s brain short circuits, and right now he’s currently unaware of everything except the fact that _EATS IS KISSING HIM, HOLY FUCK_ and that he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, racing like a sportscar speeding down the track on TV. Eats’ lips are unsurprisingly chapped, but they’re warm and he has a firm grip on Farraday’s shoulder, sending goosebumps down his arm. Eats parts his lips and Farraday almost sighs like a schoolgirl.

Eats is the storm, the storm of his eyes, and Farraday feels like he’s suddenly standing in heavy summer rain. He’s always liked thunderstorms, and now he’s in the middle of one, and the skies have finally opened up and are torrenting onto the sidewalk and Farraday’s thrown away his umbrella and he never wants to be dry again. Why would he, when Eats’ other hand is cupping his jaw, and Farraday’s eyes are closed as a swirl of rainy weather crashes around behind his eyelids? Why would anyone? 

When Eats pulls away, Farraday’s mind manages to reboot, and all the questions he might have thought before come flooding back. _Eats likes boys? Eats likes me? Eats—_

“Why did you do that?” He asks the other boy, watching him wipe spit off his lip with his thumb. He’s waiting for some kind of brush-off, some kind of excuse, some kind of embarrassed shrug before the other boy turns away, but Eats just smirks, never breaking eye contact.

“‘Cause I wanted to.”

Farraday feels his cheeks grow warm, spreading to the tips of his ears like it always does. He adjusts his glasses and shamelessly stares at the boy next to him.

“I think I love you,” Farraday mumbles, words spilled without thought but with so much meaning. He’s never admitted it to himself, but as he says it aloud he knows that those five words are the truest things he’s ever said. Eats’ lips pull back into another smirk.

“Who doesn’t?” He jokes, but his eyes are genuine, even as one of them winks at him, and Farraday rolls his eyes and pulls him into another kiss, drenching, drowning himself in the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! they might be kind of ooc but i tried my best.
> 
> since this is such an obscure fandom, i doubt anyone will read this, but i had fun writing this purely self-indulgent piece of garbage.
> 
> kudos and comments are appreciated! thanks again for reading!


End file.
